Secrets Poem by Morgan Michaels

A secret burns in my brain
like a glowing coal.
Yes, the secret lodged behind my eyes
sputters and mutters like a burning coal
pops and rocks through the long lights of York
singeing its tissuey bed
abashing its keeper.
How it longs to slip the keep of its living brazier
To impart to the world of itself at least a spark
perhaps, credence given, to start a small blaze-
How it yearns, wee imp, to hatch out
timelily as a chick from an egg
and trot about the world crying 'peep, peep, peep.'

I, too, crave the outing of the secret
(which fidgets in there like a bean)
I, too, crave its delivery
up to the ears of a few.
So would you. It hurts. Its hot.
Its eremite existence serving scant purpose, at all,
saving secrecy, of course, a pretty dull thing,
pointless to all who might wish to know-
unfair to all who might otherwise be listening, wrapt,
on the telephone, propped on pillows, sipping myrthe,
to the enchanting music of the secret, the
serpentine strains, the instructive rondel, oboeing forth,
crossing itself, doubling back, this secret.

And this secret....